The Answers Are in the Back of the Book
by Kyjin

every book originates from an idea conceived
by a mastermind erupting with inspiration
who machinates tales of friendship and discovery
pioneers of worlds beyond imagining
romance, chivalry, and lovers unrequited
windows to the horrors of flesh and living

a binding reveals little of its contents
it is the whim of the natural architect
a curtain that covers its naked pages
a vital skin of mortal things it protects

enveloping bodies of different shapes and sizes
that exude a superficial sense of personality
vying for the attention of haphazardly darting eyes
and declaring uniqueness by flaunting its identity

ideas seeded in the eager womb published
life breathed and the immaterial takes form
populating neatly crowded uniform shelves
displacing the dusty aging tombs deformed

books organized and displayed pristine
their reality an illusion of perfection
those blemished or unfit to be seen
stowed and disposed for their conditions

never have their pages turned or chanced to crease
nor its body held with devout passion and sincerity
none will be of acquaintance to its preface
and the story within remain lost to indignity

victories in conquests and mortal defeats
in a complex weave of tragedy and triumphs
stitched by the threads of wants and needs
are fibers that bind the pages of these volumes

twists of fate and misshapen lives
the science of fiction
in art and in war
looking at life through the eyes
of mass deception
betrayed and stalwart

is this a fantasy or
a reality contrived?

a dream everlasting or
our destinies arrived?

of whether we exist or
when we shall expire?

out of first breath or
cast into the fires?

blood-painted walls in caves of the ancients
lost tablets and feathered scroll passages
amber remains rendered in primeval stasis
weathered stone overturns long lost ages

artifacts of time chronicle the journeys of men
as pages of a book turning to the steady breeze
life affords a transient license to experience
cover to cover as one comes another takes leave

chapters written with the blood of our veins
as a pen that flows from one to the next
and the ink seeps deep through the pages
making its mark in sanguinary text

inflamed by the friction of shuffling activity
burned in ignorance for its deviating rites
uprising of ideas in the ashen blaze of civility
as remnants of time take oblivion’s flight

obscurities hide in the edge of popular lies
and in time we fall to its blade of affliction
that cuts from inside until a part of us dies
as tomes hollowed from pestilent consumption

even sands their memories do echo
in each grain a score of life symphonic
weathered by time’s torrential tows
a singularity of a state metamorphic

and men their tales do tell
while one generation rises
another is in descent
one shall advance
and another recede
as waves that grind
the slumbering shores

it is that as one life gives
another one in turn receives

inscribing in the stars
an account of its journey
while waiting to be reborn
in the ocean of eternity

every story that begins inevitably must end
as fleeting pages turn and motions of day ceases
when the binds of our coils become unfettered
then pressure surrenders and finally releases

existence is a volume of blank pages
recording knowledge of the experience
conceived, written, and published
between the covers of flesh and substance
wherein its characters are of our creation
events unwind as of our consequence
and the author has written himself in us

this book of life is checked out most often
and returned just as frequent
because in it the answers will lend
most of which are at the end


the past slips away as certain as the future looms on the horizon and what we have today is all that we have to live by. if we can embrace the present moment without regret and tread on with an enduring heart in hand, we will have lived in that moment. and most would agree that a fulfilling life is one that is lived.

be like the matador and tame life by the horns. if he throws you off, the pain of falling will only know one purpose- to be the passion that fans the flames of determination. a spectator of life can only know limited satisfaction, it is in the living of it that one can know contentment.

in reflection, at life’s end, we are among a circle of friends sharing our scars and stories of triumph.

at this moment, we will know that our path in life is paved by a cement truck that pours love as concrete onto the virgin path and its texture is determined by how much love we are willing to pour from our beings or that which we are choosing to withhold. life’s path is paved by the concrete of love and the lack of it.


The Craftsman
by Kyjin

a craftsman with tools in hand
skillfully design mix blood and sweat
ready to mend what’s broke and bent
renews life’s lease with a sturdy mallet

when something in me is fractioned
a division of its original intention
having no recourse or much of remorse
wounds drained and shriveled to the core

like shards of glass burrowing
in this heart of mine befallen
twisting motivate its bleeding
removed fibrous muscle ripping



The Journey
by Kyjin

soul weary and flesh withered

how far have i traveled
down this dirt and gravel?
where do my footsteps lead
as they fade with resolute speed?

in the leafy crackling rusty trails
in the dusty wind-whipped valleys
in the grainy chasms of the arctic tundra
in the gritty spiraling sinking sands

of the deeply, blue, green, and darkened sea



The holidays are an important time as they allow us to take a breather from the daily grind (not the aromatic kind) and they also mark a period of celebration, a ritualizing of routine in paying respects to our gods and idols. [..]


Why does anything exist? Does it share an interdependent co-existence with everything else and therefore is interconnected to each and every other entity in the universe? Or does it thrive in isolation, existing for the sake of existence: sans interdependence, sans meaning, and sans purpose. If a blog had no readers, a performer without an audience, and beauty without eyes to behold, would they truly be that which they are without the complement that helps them to define what they strive to be? Can we know what love is if we’ve never known hate? Can we feel pleasure if we’ve never felt pain? Can we recognize the absence of light if we’ve never stumbled amidst darkness? Seemingly, these dualities are interdependent and they interact to maintain a state of equilibrium, a cyclic regeneration of diametrically opposing and harmoniously coalescing forces. Thus, a blog shares an intimate connection with its reader via vicarious means and if it was used exclusively as a private journal then the relationship would be direct with its creator. Its purpose is defined by the intent of its creator and its meaning is derived from the experience of its existence. It exists for the reader and the reader exists for it.


Ordained Mercilessness
by Kyjin

I have been cursed with the power of sight
I dare not open my eyes to a world filled with fright
My innocence lost in the stream of time
Evil has shown to me its bloody crime




Posted in ki.Poetry

by Kyjin

Happiness is a creature that burns within me
Claws full of fury and eyes guided toward its goal
Rattling the prison that ensnares contentment
Happiness is the bane of my existence



The Porcelain Youth
by Kyjin

We are in a state of volatility
The earth forcefully ruptures from beneath
and the sky hangs flimsily on a glimmer of hope
The sun rises with hesitation and
falls quickly against a blanket of darkness

Within the high towers
I hear the murmuring of their cowardice
and within its ivory walls
the whisperings of their treachery

A corrosive poison
that chars black, the heart of man

On the ground
I hear the dirge of a soldier
pleading for mercy
in a field lay scattered
his slain comrades


Don’t take flight on the eagle’s wings
and prey on the unsuspecting youth
Steer him back to the arms of safety
and let him return to the refuge of his nest

Don’t send us to the hunting grounds
to be hung as headless trophies
by poachers and murderers

Don’t let the taxidermists
strip us of our humanity
and expose us to adult pastimes
that our innocence will unknowingly embrace

Don’t rape us of our freedom
that in silence we will resentfully consent
You may muffle our cries of agony
and while our bodies may submit
our minds will remain faithful to the pain

Stand on your podium
indulge our ears
with the nectar of your words
Then return
to the comfort of your home,
family, wife, and kids

But I will remain here, miles from home,
away from love, away from life
A ghost in a land of strangers
resting against the blood-soaked soil
waking to cries of shattered men, women, and children

I am no hero, I am no enemy
I am the porcelain youth
My skin,
tender, easily cut
My life,
fragile, easily broken

Yet I am loved,
and demonized

My mission is to slay an enemy
whom I do not fully understand
And still I see my weapon stained
with the blood of the blameless

I seek to justify my sins
and wash from my hands
the evidence of my deeds;
but my mind remains
diluted in this crimson river,
plaguing my waking life
and haunting my very existence

You ask me to be brave
and send me off with admiration
You ask me to be strong
and gave me means to protect myself

But you did not ask me
if I was willing to kill,
because he does not share an ideal
that you hold to be righteous
if I was willing to lay waste,
a land and its people,
because they do not believe
what you hold to be self-evident

The truth is,
I will not fight under a fever of destruction
and plunge our world into ruination

Perhaps it is best that I do not raise arms
at all,
against my fellow man,
who are also born of flesh and blood
who will recoil when he is shot
and bleed when his skin is broken

I am no hero, he is not my enemy
We are the porcelain youth,
Our skin,
Tender and scarred
Our lives,
Fragile and broken

Is glory worth
The fate of my brothers and sisters
sealed in a body bag?
Or worse…
Blown unrecognizably apart
only to be carried home by the winds?

How many countless lives
must prematurely sink into the dirt?
and how many more
will be shamelessly smothered in shallow graves
As we dig for this fool’s gold?


And I will say to this woeful soldier
fear not for the porcelain youth
your laments are carried by the winds of change
Our fathers know not what they do
in the games that they play with our lives

If today,
in fear,
we live, fight, and kill
in fear,
we will die

These fears are only the puppetry of shadows
casting a darker shade of ourselves
wrestling with our own inner demons
and projecting its image into our reality

Fear not lamenting youth
for you are not alone
in your depths of loneliness and despair;
in the prison of your conscience
and the slaughter-house of innocence

I will stand with you through the darkness of our times
when you find yourself fragmented
I will gather your pieces and rebuild your hope

Together we will carry this beacon of light
and shine its truth of love and peace
into man’s shadowy heart

For he cannot be changed
with blunts or bullets,
beaten or deranged
as this can only scar his flesh
while his conviction grows ever stronger

Speak to him in his heart
and in time he will see for himself
the error of his ways
Only then will you have turned him as the enemy,
and will have also made him
a friend

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